The College Jock - Chapter 5 (Patreon)

Author’s note: All characters are consenting adults (18+). All sexual acts depicted are consensual between the characters.

Chapter 5

The text came at 6:12, while I was still on the bus home from lab.

Jackson: practice ran late

Jackson: locker room. east side. wait until the lot empties

Jackson: text when you’re close

Jackson: door by the ice machine. unlocked

I sat with the phone face-down on my knee for a full stop. My mom had already texted about dinner. I told her I was staying on campus to finish a project. The lie sat in my throat the same way his cock had.

I got off two stops early and walked.

Campus at that hour was a different country. The quad lights buzzing. A girl laughing too loud near the union. I kept my head down and thought about Saturday — the sheets, the way he’d said champ, the arm around my waist that he’d turned into a punch so it wouldn’t mean anything. This wasn’t Saturday. This was him not waiting. That should have scared me more than it did.

The athletic complex smelled like cut grass and rubber and the kind of bleach they use when they don’t want you to notice the sweat. The east lot was almost empty. One truck I recognized as a lineman’s. A coach’s sedan. Jackson’s black charger at the far end, nose out, like he’d parked to leave fast.

The door by the ice machine opened without a sound.

Inside it was heat and steam and the leftover roar of a team that had already gone. Lockers slammed in the distance, then nothing. A radio in an office down the hall played top 40 hits low. I followed the wet footprints.

Jackson was sitting on the bench in the last row.

Practice jersey still on. Number 12, grass-stained across the ribs. White pants shoved down to mid-thigh, not off. Black socks. Cleats still laced, mud in the studs, a streak of dirt up one calf. His hair was dark with sweat. The cap he’d worn on the field was on the hook behind him. He looked like he’d been poured into the room and left to cool.

He didn’t smile.

“You took the long way,” he said.

“You said wait.”

“I said wait. I didn’t say take twenty.” He stood. The jersey clung. I could see the shape of him through it — the chest, the gut that wasn’t a gut but abs that look like a chocolate bar, the way the fabric had gone transparent at the pits. He smelled like a field. Dirt. Heat. The rubber of the pads he’d already peeled off and thrown in the stall. “Anybody see you?”

“No.”

“Good. Coach is in the film room. Two guys are still in the showers. You hear water, you freeze. You hear the door, you get in that stall and you shut up.” He pointed at the last shower with the curtain half drawn. “We get caught, I say you were helping me with tape. You say nothing. You look at the floor. Got it, bro?”

“Got it.”

Jackson dragged a hand over his face. Sweat came away on his palm. He looked at my mouth the way he had on the couch the first night.

“I’ve been hard since third quarter,” he said. “Coach kept yelling and I kept thinking about your throat. That’s a problem, Finn. That’s a problem I was supposed to wait until Saturday to fix.”

“You texted.”

“I know I texted.” He stepped in. Cleats loud on the tile. The grass smell got thicker. “On your knees. Don’t make me ask twice. My legs are cooked and if I sit down I don’t know if I get back up before somebody walks in.”

I dropped.

The tile was wet. My jeans soaked at the knees immediately. Up close he was worse — the jersey sour, the waistband of the pants dark, the thick outline already shoving the mesh. He shoved the pants lower with one hand. His enormous cock came out heavy, half hard going full in the time it took me to look at it. Same monster. Same downward weight. Dirt on his knuckles from the field. A blade of grass stuck to his thigh.

“Don’t be cute about it,” he said. “I don’t have the patience I had on the couch. I just ran for two hours. I need it gone.”

I took the head.

He hissed through his teeth like the first cold spray after practice. The smell was pure and intense musk. The taste of a body that had been working out intensely for two hours. Field and soap fighting. I opened for the thickness and he didn’t give me the slow minute from the first night. His hand landed on the back of my head and he fed it, inch by inch, until my eyes watered and my nose hit the damp hair at the base.

“That’s it. That’s the spot. Hold.”

I held. I couldn’t breathe. He counted under his breath like a drill. Three. Four. Five. He pulled me off by the hair and I dragged air and spit and he put me back before I was ready.

“Deeper. You took it in my apartment. You can take it in here, bro.”

I tried. The curve of him found the same path it had on his couch and my throat fluttered around it. Jackson swore, quiet, and started using the handle of my hair. Not the full loss of control yet. The version that still remembered a coach down the hall.

“Look at you,” he muttered. “On my locker room floor. If the team saw this they’d never let me hear the end of it. They’d also line up. I’m not sharing. This stays between us. You hear me?”

I made a sound around him that he took for yes.

The wet sound bounced. Locker metal. Drip from a shower head. His cleats shifted and grit scraped the tile. I worked him with both hands on what wouldn’t fit and he started moving — short, mean strokes, the way he’d used my throat when the careful version of him left the room. The jersey brushed my forehead. Sweat dropped off his jaw onto my cheek. A flake of dried dirt came with it. I tasted grass when I breathed.

“Fuck. Your mouth is better when I’m like this. I don’t know why. Maybe because I earned it. Two hours of hitting and I get this. That’s a fair trade, Finn. That’s the only trade I’m making.”

He pushed to the base and held. My hands fisted in the white practice pants bunched at his thighs. The mesh was rough. The muscle under it jumped. He let me up an inch and took the inch back.

“Don’t you tap out. You said yes to Saturday. This is just Saturday early.”

Water kicked on two rows over.

We both froze.

Jackson’s cock was still in my mouth. His hand stayed in my hair. Footsteps. A laugh. Somebody saying the water was cold. Jackson’s eyes went to the stall he’d pointed at, then back to me. He didn’t pull out. He held me there, buried, while a teammate showered fifteen feet away and sang half a song off-key.

I looked up. He looked down. His mouth was a line. He mouthed don’t you dare make a sound.

I didn’t.

The shower cut. The guy yelled down the hall about seeing somebody at the bars. A locker slammed. The door to the corridor opened and shut.

Jackson let out a breath that shook.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “Fuck. Get in the stall. Now.”

He hauled me up by the arm. Cleats clicking. We packed into the last shower. He yanked the curtain. There wasn’t room. My back hit the cold tile. His chest hit me, grass and heat, the number 12 crushed between us. His cock was wet against my stomach, still out, still hard. We listened.

Nothing.

Then the ice machine in the hall dumped a load of cubes and we both flinched like it was a person.

Jackson laughed once, ugly, against my hair.

“This is the stupidest thing I’ve done this year,” he said. “And I failed two seasons.”

“We can stop.”

“Fuck no! We’re not stopping, dude.” He pulled back enough to look at me. Sweat in his eyelashes. Dirt on his collarbone. “Turn around. Hands on the wall. Pants down. I can’t do the bed thing. I don’t have the time and I don’t have the patience and if I don’t get in you I’m going to walk onto that field tomorrow and think about it the whole game.”

I turned.

The tile was freezing on my palms. I shoved my jeans and underwear down. Jackson spat. Two fingers, rough, not the long prep from Saturday. The stall smelled like soap someone else had used and the field he’d brought in on his skin.

“You been practicing,” he muttered. “I can tell. Still tight. Still gonna hurt. Breathe. Tell me you want it, slutty boy.”

“Fuck me, bro.”

He lined up.

The head stretched me the way it had on his sheets and the angle was worse standing. I bit my wrist. He pushed. The burn went sharp and deep and I made a sound I swallowed. He clamped a hand over my mouth from behind and kept going until the head popped in.

“Quiet,” he said into my ear. “Coach is still in the building. You yell, this becomes a meeting. You don’t want that meeting. Coach is a strict motherfucker”

I nodded against his palm.

He gave me four seconds. Then he sank.

Inch by inch with his cleats planted and his other hand on my hip.The jersey was rough on my back. His pads were gone but the sweat was still in the fabric and it painted me. When he bottomed out I was shaking. Full. The same impossible stretch. My forehead on the tile.

“That’s all of it,” he whispered. “Same as Saturday. You’re a fucking champ for taking it all. Don’t you lock up on me.”

He didn’t move yet. He just stayed buried, breathing like the fourth quarter, the chain under the jersey cold against my spine. I could feel him throb. I could feel how close the door was. The stall was a box. We were two people who were not supposed to be in it.

“You good,” he said. Not a question he wanted a speech for.

I nodded.

“Words. Quiet words.”

“I’m good. Don’t stop.”

He started moving.

Short. Dirty. The slap of his hips on my ass was wet and ugly in the stall. His pants were still around his thighs. The cleats scraped every time he drove in. Grass smell. Dirt. Intense sweat. He took the hand off my mouth and put it on the wall next to mine, caging me, and fucked like the two hours on the field had been a warmup for this.

“Take it. That’s it. That’s what I needed. I sat on the bench in the fourth and thought about this exact hole. Coach thought I was watching the play. I was thinking about how you sounded when I went in last time.”

The rhythm built the way it had on his mattress, except here there was no pillow to yell into. I bit my lip. He felt me tighten and groaned into my shoulder.

“Easy. You clamp like that and I finish in two minutes and then I have to look at you on the bus stop like I didn’t just ruin this stall.” His next thrust was deeper, meaner. “I’m already going to look at you like that. Don’t make it worse.”

I reached back and got a fistful of the jersey. Number 12 bunched in my hand. He let me. He drove in until my feet almost left the tile and the only thing holding me up was him and the wall.

I pushed back because my body had already learned him. The burn sat under the pleasure and the pleasure sat under the fear of the door. Every thrust shoved me up the tile. My own cock hung ignored against the wall and I didn’t care. I cared about the thickness dragging over the spot that made my knees try to buckle.

Footsteps in the locker row.

Jackson went still, buried to the hilt, his mouth on the back of my neck.

A voice: “Pierce? You still here?”

Jackson’s cock twitched inside me. He didn’t pull out.

“Yeah,” he called. Voice almost normal. Almost. “Taping. Two minutes.”

“Lights out in ten. Don’t sleep in here again.”

“I won’t.”

The footsteps left. The corridor door. Quiet.

Jackson laughed into my skin, breathless, mean.

“Taping,” he said. “You’re the tape.”

He started again, harder, like the scare had put something extra in him. The stall curtain swayed. Water dripped on my wrist. He hooked an arm around my chest and held me up when my legs went. His mouth was at my ear, bro-low, the words punched out on the thrusts.

“You don’t tell anybody. You don’t look at me in the hall tomorrow. You don’t come to the next practice. You wait for the text. If I send it, you come. If I don’t, you stay home and you think about this big cock, champ.”

“Okay.”

“Say it.”

“I wait for your text, Jackson.”

“Good fucking boy.” He drove in deep and stayed there, grinding, the head pressed where it made me see white. “I’m close. I’m not pulling out. You know that already.”

“I know. Breed me.”

“Take it. Same as the bed. Every drop. Then you walk out first. I wait five minutes. Different doors.”

He didn’t last long after that. The field had taken most of him. What was left went into me in thick pulses while he bit the shoulder of my shirt to keep the sound down. I felt every one. He kept his hips flush through it, sweaty jersey stuck to my back, cleats braced, a broken noise dying in the cotton.

I came against the tile without a hand on me, messy, shaking, and he felt the clench and swore into the shirt.

He stayed in until it was over.

For a few seconds the only sound was the drip and both of us trying not to pass out from the heat. Jackson’s forehead rested between my shoulder blades. His breath was hot. The captain was gone. What was left was a twenty-one-year-old who had just fucked his favorite target in a shower stall with his cleats on.

“Don’t turn around yet,” he said.

I didn’t.

He pulled out slow. I felt the empty and the wet. He stood there looking, I knew, because the quiet went tight.

“Saturday I had sheets,” he said. “This is a mess. This is me being an idiot. You’re gonna feel this on the bus. Don’t you text me about it. I’ll text first. Fuck! I’m suck an idiot.”

When he pulled out I felt it run. He looked down, swore once, and yanked my jeans up himself like leaving me standing there open was a risk he wouldn’t take.

“Walk,” he said. “Ice machine door. Don’t look at the cameras like you know they’re there.”

I fixed my shirt. My legs were a problem, I was shaky. He was already tucking himself into the practice pants, jersey tugged down, cap back on, the captain again except for the flush in his face and the grass still on his calf.

At the curtain he caught my wrist.

“Finn.”

“Yeah.”

“That wasn’t Saturday. Saturday was a bed. This was me not being able to wait. Don’t get it twisted. I’m still not—” He stopped. The word sat there. He didn’t say gay. He said, “I’m still me. You did me a favor. A big one. I’ll text you, bro.”

“Okay. Glad to help you.”

He let go.

I walked the wet tile past the empty stalls and the abandoned tape and the radio playing something about a truck. The ice machine door put me in the evening air. Cut grass. His charger still in the lot. My mouth tasted like him. My jeans were a wet problem I was going to have to walk home with. I thought about the note in the locker from the first week — slut, gay— and the same hand that wrote those had just held my hip in a shower stall and told me I was tape.

I didn’t look back.

Five minutes later, from the bus stop, I watched the east door open. Jackson came out with a bag over his shoulder like practice had just ended. He didn’t look at the stop. He got in the charger and sat there with the engine off for a long time, both hands on the wheel, before he pulled out.

My phone lit up at 8:01.

Jackson: you get home

Jackson: don’t you dare sit down careful and think I don’t know why

Jackson: Saturday still happens

Jackson: this doesn’t replace Saturday

Jackson: this was extra

I typed with a thumb that still smelled like the locker room.

Finn: I got home

Finn: Saturday

Jackson: good

Jackson: and finn

Jackson: if that guy had opened the curtain I would have said you were nobody

Jackson: I would have said it. you understand

Jackson: don’t come to the field

Finn: I understand

I sat on my bed in clothes that still had his field on them and didn’t shower.

I wanted the grass to stay.

I could still feel him and smell him. The stretch. The run of it when he pulled out and yanked my jeans up like evidence. I thought about the teammate two rows over singing off-key. I thought about “Pierce? You still here?” and Jackson answering with his huge  cock all the way in me, voice almost normal. That was the part that sat in my stomach hotter than the rest. Not the size. The fact that he would rather lie to a teammate than take it out.

Tomorrow I would walk past him in the engineering hall and I would look at the floor like he’d told me to.

I already knew I was going to look up anyway.

He would look at the floor first.

Then he wouldn’t.